


a mess like this won't heal

by lazybug



Category: Kingsman (Movies)
Genre: Angst, Eggsy & Roxy Bromance, Emotional Baggage, Emotional Hurt/Comfort, Gen, Harry Hart Lives, M/M, Panic Attacks, Poor Eggsy, Temporary Character Death
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-05-12
Updated: 2017-05-12
Packaged: 2018-10-30 19:45:21
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,647
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10883667
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lazybug/pseuds/lazybug
Summary: The aftermath of Harry's death is brutal and exhausting and purely heartbreaking. Harry coming back hurts just as much, after two years of suffering through.





	a mess like this won't heal

**Author's Note:**

> Warning for something very closely related to PTSD mixed with a panic disorder. Harry is briefly dead.
> 
> Title is taken from "Panic Attacks" by Jamie Lawson

There’s a brutal moment of finality, of silence, after a gun is shot. He feels it tear through every fiber of his being—sharp, ruthless, pain. And Eggsy can’t breathe, he can’t breathe but he knows he’s screaming at the top of his lungs, he shoves the laptop further and further away from him. The image sticks.

But he can’t get it out of his head, the feed from his glasses, the final moments, the sound of the gun, the harsh thud of Harry’s body hitting the pavement. The excruciating hope that maybe he made it, maybe just maybe he fucking survived. 

The panic that engulfs him is too much to bare. The laptop is still in sight. His stomach clenches and his arms wrap tightly around himself, trying to shield his body from god-knows-what. Life, death, living without—without—”Oh, fuck!” 

He doesn’t even make it to the can, curled up on the floor of Harry’s office, surrounded in the contents of his stomach, shaking, surrounded by all that is—was—Harry. Managing to get up on his hands and knees, somehow, he holds an arm across his waist, wounded. He gulps in air, mouth open, bile stinging in his mouth. He screams, he screams, he screams, until his lungs physically collapse and he has to learn how to breathe again. Has to learn how to live. 

The weight of his body is too much, it’s too much to keep himself upright enough to crawl. The walls are closing in around him, newspaper clippings swimming in his vision, words blurring so viciously he feels like he’s going to throw up again. 

A sound of pure anguish bubbles past his lips as he spits again, trying to get the awful taste of death out of his mouth. He knows to anyone else’s ears, the sound would register as a name, Harry. But he can’t hear it, just hears the pain and the panicked stopping of his heart and he’s shaking so badly, teeth chattering. The air around him is too hot, too cold, too everything. 

Living hurts. 

The fat tears pour out of him, he’s almost positive that he could drown in them—would happily drown in them. And his current situation hits him again, a huge wave of pain, of suffering, of knowing he has to live, goddammit he has to live. 

But he can’t now, so he drops back down, head hitting the floor first, weak cries sounding, mewls of disbelief and sorrow, shaky repetition of “Harry” and “no.” Every so often they get louder, voice breaking so pitifully, so broken. He can’t do it. His voice fades to nothingness to his own ears after a while, his whole body numbing and shutting down. The only thing he feels is the sharp pain in his heart, the beating too off kilter and jagged, like it’s pushing through nails and glass rather than blood. 

Faintly, he hears the gasp, the scrabbling footsteps, and hushed condolences can feel like pity boring into his soul. But for the life of him, he just can’t acknowledge whoever is at his side, pulling his limp body into a bone-crushing hug and whispering what he needs to hear.

So he just cries and cries, until his chest is hollow and his head aches with a need for sleep and water. The stuttering gasps for air don’t stop, neither do the broken syllables of Harry’s name passing his lips. But he’s wholly, utterly exhausted himself past the point of redemption. And without the strength to carry himself to any sort of comfortable place or position, he sets his head limply on the lap of his company and sniffles until his breath evens out, asleep, but rather wishing he was dead, too. 

The days pass without ease. He doesn’t sleep unless he takes the medication given to him by Kingman’s finest psycho- pharmacist. Without sleep, he wanders through his missions, bags under his eyes, heart not in it. Still, he tries and wins, most of the time. Without sleep, he doesn’t think and it helps. He doesn’t like when he’s well rested, his thoughts are too clear, too precise, too focused. But sleep also gives him Harry, sometimes when he dreams. If he dreams. 

He’d taken the liberty of moving into Harry’s house—unable to leave it, really. He uses Harry’s robe and tries to call it his own every once in awhile, a pang deep in his chest. He sleeps on the couch, though, can’t make himself go in Harry’s bedroom. He tried, once. After a week of Harry being gone. But it still smelled like Harry and Eggsy remembers the stab from a needle after his panic attack, a tranquilizer. He’d forgotten to take off his glasses that day, Merlin seeing it all. Every since then, he’s been on the medicine. It doesn’t help, just makes him foggy.

Roxy says she’s worried about him, always taking him out to lunch to “chat.” He just pushes around his food, nodding when he needed to. She always squeezed his hand lightly at first and then held it more firmly when she knew it was a particularly rough day. 

They were all rough days.

Sweet Daisy grew and grew with each passing month, her smile warming Eggsy’s cold, lonely heart. She calls him “Gy” now, and every once in a blue moon, it makes him laugh. His mum, poor Michelle, always looks at him with her expression full of sorrow and longing, like she just wants her baby boy to be okay. He does too, really. 

He wants Harry back more. 

On the year anniversary, Eggsy feels okay, well...more okay than he expected. He watches the video Merlin gave him a few months back and doesn’t cry when he watches it. Harry smiles in it, calls Eggsy by his name and tells him how proud he is of him, what he’s become. It still smarts, but in time, he knows it’ll be the one thing keeping him going. The real kicker is that Eggsy remembers the moment happening, right after being shot in the leg by an Armenian priest. He was on his crutches after surgery and Harry just happened to be there, kind words flowing easily, but his eyes portrayed a message of concern and “Please, be more careful next time.”

Time keeps moving, the reliable bastard that it is. 

Every now and again he gets a glance in the mirror at himself, the sunken eyes, the way his suit hangs on him like he’s a lifeless coat rack, the quivering of his chin when he stares hard enough. The glasses hide the bags under his eyes for the most part. They make an artificial glint like he actually has life or energy, but there’s no emotion present, just darkness and solid white background with bloodshot, red veins. 

The new Arthur calls for a meeting one day and Eggsy, well, he wants to skip it. The London air feels fresher that particular day, his chest lighter, somehow. There’s an aching behind his eyes but nothing too serious. He simply wants the day to stay how it is: no worse, no better. Which is why he supposes it falls to the worst, not worse. 

“The Statesman quarters has a bit of footage we need to search through, thoroughly,” Arthur says, and that’s that. The old, grizzly man who just fell into the position continues, addressing Lancelot with her newest task, Kay with his mission, and Percival with his. The list goes on, and Merlin stands when addressed with his, nodding and glancing at Eggsy when he’s added to going through the footage, something about relating to a previous thing with something or other; Eggsy really doesn’t know nor care. 

It’s quite simple stuff, really. Some leftover shit with Valentine, his goons need to be caught up with before they’re at it again. Merlin needs to find the location from the footage, blah blah blah. So when Merlin suddenly stutters, pausing the feed and inching it backward just enough, Eggsy freezes. He physically stops breathing. 

“Oh my god,” Merlin bumbles, “Harry?” 

And if Eggsy spills his tea all over himself in the process of jumping out of his chair, he doesn’t feel it. He runs until he’s made it to a safer place, an empty room, an office, maybe. So he finds Harry’s and locks the door, knees buckling beneath his weight, head hitting hard against the wood. His breaths stutter, his mind racing. He’s sobbing again but he’s laughing, too. 

“Oh god,” he murmurs, looking up at the ceiling, “Fuck me.” 

He gives himself exactly two minutes and three seconds of bubbly, giddy bliss until it hits him. Someone needs to save Harry. For Christ’s sake, it can’t be him. The panic seizes him useless, he simply couldn’t do it. 

“Fuck,” he repeats, over and over, punctuating every word with a slam of his head backward against the door. “Fuck, fuck fuck.” His chin trembled against his will and his chest is heaving, fingers shaky as he rips off his glasses and throws them across the room, hoping they shatter. 

Maybe if he hides long enough, Roxy will just take the lead and find Harry, bring him home. And Eggsy can hide, and ignore the rush of emotions hitting him relentlessly. 

He sees Harry die, right before his eyes. The bullet coming straight for the glasses through the computer screen, yelling, screaming, crying. The pain batters him with a new sense of purpose, rattling him to the very core. He sees the blood running down Harry’s face from his dreams, the hole in his head the exact size of the bullet. He sees himself, scrambling to help, to stanch the blood flow, keep him breathing long enough for emergencies services to come. 

“Harry, you hafta look at me, lookit—come on, Har—you ain’t leavin’ me—stop, come on. Harry—Harry!” he remembers saying in the dream, hands covered in blood, knowing Harry is already gone.

There’s loud knocking on the door behind him but Eggsy just covers his ears, rocking back and forth. He blocks it out, blocks out the sound of Harry falling to the ground after he was shot, the sound of silence that followed, Valentine almost vomiting, the clear blue sky transmitted by Harry’s glasses, cracked glass, no breathing. Harry dead.

All over again, he’s watching it happen, in slow motion, or too fast. He’s shouting out, “No! He can’t be dead, he’s not dead! Harry!” But it’s too late and he knows it. His stomach clenches tightly and his throat closes up, he can’t breathe anymore. His head is still banging against the door, his body coiled up into as small as he can make it. 

At this point, he’s just crying out sounds, maybe words, maybe not. He can’t lose him like this, he can’t lose him, he can’t. He’s dead. He’s been dead for over a year, they buried him, he’s dead, he’s dead, it’s old footage he’s dead.

“Eggsy, love, open the door. Eggsy, please. Eggsy?” More frantic knocking reverberating again his head. “Please, Eggsy, it’s okay. It’ll be okay. Okay? Eggsy, please. Please don’t make yourself go through this alone again, I’m here.” 

He knows Roxy would help, or die trying, but for the life of him, he can’t move. He’s frozen in his state of horrified panic, flashbacks of Harry stuck on repeat. 

He remembers the funeral, closed casket and leaving the sourest taste in his mouth, aside from blood and bile. He remembers not being able to breathe properly or being able to stop crying. And he saw everyone else hurting and couldn’t do anything but feel sorrier for himself. He didn’t go to the get together afterward, just stayed standing by the grave. He didn’t cry then when he was alone. He felt numb, unable to comprehend the severity of it all. It didn’t seem real.

And it wasn’t. Couldn’t be. 

He chokes on the first wisp of air that reaches his lungs, doubling over, his hand just catching him before falling flat on his face. “Rox,” he coughs and pulls himself out of the way, fingers scrabbling for the knob on the door. He hears it click after a few moments and drops back down, sucking in air like a fish out of water does, painfully and not getting any relief. And by god, if he didn’t feel ready to pass out right then and there. 

Roxy handles him well enough to the point that he’s sitting and she’s practically forcing him to focus by smacking him on the back with the right amount of force to get his lungs properly working again. 

His coughing becomes hoarse, much like he assumes his voice to be. “Harry has been repatriated, Arthur sent someone earlier today once he saw the footage. He’s—oh Eggsy, it’ll work out,” she informs him, but her resolve breaks and she’s cooing into his hair, stroking his back when he lets out another cry, “It’s alright.”

He still feels like he’s going to throw up, face screwed up in pain and disbelief and confusion. “I don’ know what I’ll do, Rox, I—I ain’t ready—I—he’s dead, ain’t he? Fuck me, I can’t, I can’t,” he stutters, hands wiping down his face, through his hair, shaking. 

Roxy sighs, a little laugh echoed in it, “Babe, it’s not a bad thing. He’s back for now, and you’re here, too. This is good for you. Don’t think about almost two years ago, think of the time before it, or the time you have now. You can’t live your life in fear of him, or of losing him. Alright?”

He nods, eyes closed as he wills himself to stop thinking. It’s the anxiety, he knows it, but can’t seem to will it away at the drop of a hat. He concentrates on Roxy, instead, as she continues to talk him through it, gentle affection here, and an outright laugh there. 

There are moments where he completely shuts down again, sobs into her suit jacket. There are moments where he lays silent and still, too. Within the hour, though, he’s relatively better, if not more exhausted than before. His chest aches like it normally does after a particularly brutal episode, his eyes burn, his head swims in the fuzzy gray area he’s come to welcome with relative ease. 

He’s led to the bunks, given some crackers and a bottle of fizzy water, with clear instruction to rest, drink, and “don’t think.” The light sedative helps. 

He’s amazed at how rested he feels when he wakes, a little groggy, sure, a mild headache, yeah, but rested. A big swig of water later, and he’s up, cracking his neck and scratching at his chin. 

“Didn’t want to wake you. After all I’ve heard, you seem to have needed it,” and Eggsy startles out of his skin, a curse fumbling from his lips. He looks taller, may a bit thinner, and Eggsy positively melts when there’s a thinly pressed smile on his lips. Tears prick Eggsy’s eyes, his heart feels like it’s gonna beat out of his chest, his mouth hangs open but he can’t force the words out. 

His feet move on their own accord, a half jog, half limp sort of thing. His feet feel like they’re weighed down by cinder blocks but his head is light and dizzy. His heart races, his stomach twists and drops, and his throat feels like it’s never been drier.

He has half a mind to skid to a stop directly in front Harry, checking him up and down to look for any visible damage. He can’t look Harry in the eyes, but musters a watery grin, and says, voice cracking, “Fuck you.” It’s not what he means to come out but his shoulders are shaking with how hard he's crying and Harry’s here and alive and he can’t focus enough to do more than one thing at once. 

There’s a warm arm snaking around his shoulder, a hand on the back of his neck, right at the edge of his hair. It’s messy, his hair, hadn’t had time to cut it, really. He expects some comment from Harry, a scoff, a roll of his eyes, but he gets reeled in instead, nose bumping into his solid chest. 

“Fuck you,” he reiterates, softer, quiet, harsh as ever, “You left, you died.” His mind wanders to how long it’s been and he bites back a sob. Almost two years, he thinks, and breathes in heavy. Harry kinda smells like a hospital, but more like Harry than his robe does. Two years is a long time, after all.

Eggsy doesn’t lift his arms to hug back, he can’t just yet. So he stands there and lets Harry soak up his fill, crushing his nose into the fabric covering his chest until he winces in pain. The spots around there are soaked, his own tears and snot, no doubt. If Harry notices, he doesn’t say. Which is fine, Eggsy needs the silence, almost craves it more than words. 

Harry doesn’t talk for a long time, he sighs and clears his throat a few times, but never really does anything else. Neither does Eggsy, well, he cries, but eventually that stops, too. 

But then he does, scritching at the nape of Eggsy’s neck, encouraging him to look up. “Alright?” he asks, and that’s it. 

And it’s like his entire world colors again. After two years, he’s not hearing the same stale videos of Harry talking, or trying to remember how he said certain words. No, he hears the timbre, the surprising lowness he forgot about, hears concern and sincerity and sorrow. 

It’s a salve to every wound he’s ever had.

Silently, he nods, looking at Harry’s face, the bionic eye, the flecks of pale, never healing skin that stretched to his eyebrow. Finally, he pulls Harry close, arms tight around his waist, bone-crushing desperation hitting like a punch to the gut. 

He couldn’t tell you how long he stayed like that, like they stayed like that. But it was a while. He sniffled and cried and wanted to punch Harry and hug him harder. Every once in a while the lights would go out, motion sensored shits. Harry would wave a hand, but bring it back so shortly after the lights flicked back on, resting it in a new place each time.

Eggsy knew that Harry would’ve stayed there like that for as long as he needed, truly the most wonderful person for that, but he must have had so much other stuff to do that Eggsy felt guilty keeping him. So he backed out of the embrace, hands stuffed in his pockets, head down. 

“Funny, innit?” he mumbles to the floor, “You being alive and all that.” His eyes burned like they always did after crying so he rubbed at them idly, gaze unfocused on Harry’s shoes. 

“Yes, well,” Harry says, and that’s that. Eggsy squints, turning his gaze back up to the man, chewing on his bottom lip, confused as all hell. He simply nods, a cue meant to end the conversation. 

And Eggsy did mean to end the conversation, he turns his back and everything. But he turns back instead and blurts, “But it really ain’t funny, Harry, you know? I’m strugglin’, been strugglin’. Can’t have a proper meal, now, ‘cause of you. Can’t sleep, neither. You’re always on my mind, and a weight on my chest, you know? Like death is some heavy shit, Harry. Some rank shit.” 

If he was heartbroken before, the face before him really did him in. Harry’s expression is so open, so full of regret and hurt and an apologetic frown pulling at his lips. His eyebrows furrow and he opens his mouth to speak, cocks his head and licks at his lips, says nothing. Eggsy’s eyes sting again but at least there's something he got out there, not keeping it all to himself like he usually does. 

“Haven’t touched anything in your house, by the way. ‘Cept the couch, kitchen, toilet, sink, shower, floor. Hurt too much,” he admits, omitting the use of Harry’s robe and the blankets and really anything outside of the bedroom that smelled like Harry. “Never let anybody in neither, really.” Into the house or to Eggsy himself.

Harry looks like he can’t decide if he wants to run or hug. Honestly, Eggsy’d accept either. His expression softens once again, utter sadness seeping through. He sighs a shuddering sigh, chest shaking, and says, “Oh, Eggsy, sweet boy, I am truly sorry to have put you through this. I cannot fathom—can’t begin to—Eggsy, you need anything at all, you come to me, alright? Fuck, I am sorry, Eggsy, I’m—come here, please. I know it has been hard for you. I’ll be here for now, whenever you need.”

He gets pulled into another hug, this one more than just holding on. This one has heart, and Hart. His hands brush up and down Eggsy’s back, chin resting on the top of his head. Apologies are sent back and forth between squeezes. And almost silently, Harry mouths, “I’m here, my boy,” and presses the softest, most gentle kiss to the top of Eggsy’s head. 

It sends chills down his spine, heart aching with the rhythm it beats. If he thinks too hard, he’s almost positive that he imagines it. He smiles, though, a small, private one that no one else knows ever happened. 

And later, when Harry finds the pile of his things where Eggsy sleeps, he doesn’t say anything, just hugs Eggsy again, more intimate than before. He kisses Eggsy’s forehead this time, serious and a sad smile on his face after. “Good night, Eggsy.”

His voice breaks when Eggsy replies, “Welcome back, Harry.”

**Author's Note:**

> Essentially my personal take on my own dealings with death and my reactions to it, but put into another character. Again, haven't really written much in this verse but angst seems to be what I'm good at and this ship is quite good with that


End file.
